Sunday, February 28, 2016

End of One Season - Beginning of Another

March is
such an in-between kind of month. The last ice of a strange winter is peeling
away from the shorelines. Ironically, the ice fishing is best in March. It’s
just a little challenging finding safe ice to sit on.

The
Vermont tradition of bullpout fishing begins to tug on my heartstrings. (I like
calling them “bullpout” or “hornpout” instead of their proper moniker
“bullhead” because it’s a colloquialism taught me by my wife’s uncle, Marvin
Thomas, of Shelburne, a seventh generation Vermonter).

As I am
jigging for jumbo perch with my Swedish pimple and bibbit on the degrading ice
of a pond that holds decent ice structure into mid March, I am already thinking
about sitting on the muddy bank of the confluence of Otter Creek and Dead Creek.
Locals call it “Donovans” after the campsite by that name on the other side of
Panton Road in Vergennes. Once the ice is out of the river, the bullpout begin
to swim upstream to spawn.

They are
a member of the catfish family and come in brown, white and yellow colorations,
with nasty spikes on their dorsal and pectoral fins that only an accomplished
fisherman/woman learns to handle properly. Nonetheless, they are delectable as
table fare. I like to fry them in a vegetable oil after rubbing the fillets
with Cajun spices. They are identical in flavor to their larger cousins but are
far tenderer.

Another
name for this fish is “mudcat”, a portmanteau that acknowledges the fish’s
appearance with its love of wriggling in the mud. Thus, the bait, usually a
piece of large crawler or a chunk of chicken liver, is laying dormant in the
mud, held down from the current by a two ounce sinker. The bullpout approaches
the bait by using its sense of smell and typically ingests the bait and hook in
a slovenly fashion, swallowing the entire contraption.

I am
lost in my daydream and visualize being comfortably ensconced on my folding
chair, hot coffee in my right hand, a maple donut in my left, while my medium
weight rod leans on an old “Y” branch stuck in the mud at a 45º angle. The line
hangs off of the tip of the rod in a gentle bow, just enough tension to
recognize a tug from the bottom of the river.

‘Pout
fishermen watch their lines with tremendous concentration, looking for the
slightest tug that straightens out the monofilament. When the line moves, the
butt of the rod is lifted, gently at first, then quickly and assertively to set
the hook. The battle is not typically a hard fight, but a larger fish will
create a good wake as it spins side over side into the shoreline.

This is
where it gets a little dicey. Remember those nasty spikes? Well, the only way
to pick up one of these cats is to aim the belly of the fish into your palm and
rest your thumb under one of the pectoral fins and the forefinger under the
other, supporting the weight of the fish by the spikes resting above the first
knuckle of the finger and thumb. I often use my middle finger to squeeze the
belly and my remaining two fingers fingers to brace the lower belly. Unless you
are an expert, under no conditions should one attempt to pick up a bullpout by
the back, because the dorsal fin spike can easily penetrate the fatty tissue
between the thumb and forefinger. And it hurts! Trust me!

Once the
fish is in hand, removing the hook is another lesson entirely. I have watched
the old timers remove it by sticking a stick down the throat and twirling it
around the line then yanking it out, hook and line together. It’s ugly but it
works. (I have never seen a catch and release bullpout fisherman.)

When the
run begins, it’s not too difficult to fill a half pail full of these delicious
mudcats. Some people disdain them, calling them filthy and disgusting, but I
think it’s because they haven’t eaten them when they are cooked properly.

As I am
thinking about bullpout fishing, I suddenly feel a tug.

My
ultralight ice rod is bending down toward the hole and throbbing with life.
It’s a big perch. Probably a 12 incher. As I reel up the prize, I realize that
this may be the last day on the ice.